


Making Time

by CaptainOzone



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bruce has imposter syndrome, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Family Feels, Gen, Temporary Amnesia, and a sprinkle of anxiety, batman bingo 2020, but he's still a good dad, mental age regression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27743038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOzone/pseuds/CaptainOzone
Summary: Bruce does not remember anything leading up to this moment. He does not remember teaming up with Superman recently, nor does he remember being anywhere but Gotham proper.He does remember having Robin at his side. Robin, it turns out, is not there any longer.God does he hate magic.Written for Batman Bingo 2020: Magic
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Clark Kent, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651195
Comments: 36
Kudos: 309





	Making Time

**Author's Note:**

> So I realize my oneshot _a million dreams_ was partly written so I could have The Graysons meeting their adult son. Purely self-indulgent on my part. It was not enough. It will probably never be enough. I wanted twenty-something!Bruce to meet his adult son too. So here we have this random mental age-regression oneshot. I realize the plots are somewhat similar. I do not care. Please validate me.
> 
> LOL. In all seriousness, I wrote about 3k of this in maybe 5-6 hours, and then spent days nitpicking and worrying over it. Is it my best? Probably not, but I hope my brand of self-indulgent Batfam is the same as yours and you enjoy it nonetheless.

Bruce’s awakening is not kind.

His sharp intake of breath burns his lungs. The air is clinically artificial, stale, _dry_. It sends him into a coughing fit that wracks his entire frame, which is when he notices it isn’t just his lungs and chest that twinge with pain. 

It’s everything. Everything feels...

“Batman?”

_Wrong._

Bruce’s eyes fly open, and the world spins around him. His cheeks sting as his lips pull upward into a grimace. Hell, _sting_ is far too mild a word. It feels as though an entire Home Depot’s worth of metal pliers have taken hold of his skin, mercilessly pinching and yanking it taut. 

His eyes well with unbidden tears. Several faces float before him, framed by a carousel of color far too bright. There are sharp contrasts and lines far too stark for him to fully comprehend, let alone catalogue and recognize as anything remotely human. He cannot even discern how many there are. 

Only that they are too close. Much too close.

“Batman?” one of them asks again. He is a blurry mess of green and navy blue in Bruce’s vision. Blinking the tears away does nothing to change that. “Are you with us?”

He cannot identify the voice. It is soothing and gentle, like slipping into fresh sheets after a hard patrol, but the sound of it resonates somehow, a nearly undetectable, eerie echo overlapping with its source. 

He shakes his head. It is bare. His cowl is gone.

Alarm and an encroaching sense of danger make his already compromised senses go haywire. Noise rushes around him like a waterfall, and though the strangers in the room do not touch him, they continue to crowd him. Colors shift and morph, and his mind begins supplying faulty data to fill the fuzzy holes, moving at a nauseating speed that, even at his best, he probably couldn’t follow. Half-formed assumptions feed an unbidden rush of adrenaline, and he explodes into motion, thrusting himself from his cot and at those who hold him captive.

His reach is off. His balance is even more so, and he spares a brief moment to marvel at whatever drug it is that did this to him. It’s wildly effective. He’ll need a sample. Later.

One of his feral punches does connect, miracle of all miracles. It is not a very good one, but it does have some power behind it. His knuckles smack unevenly against his target’s jaw, splitting skin. He pulls back his injured fist and tries to force his vision into strict focus so he can aim again.

A callused, firm hand catches his wrist.

“Bruce,” comes a blessedly familiar voice, right in his ear. A whirl of crimson and royal blue surrounds him, shielding him from the rest of the room. “ _Enough._ ”

Bruce blinks rapidly. The tension wound through his arm and fist drains away. Sharp aches return, and his armor feels heavier than it had before. He slumps where he’s seated, heart rate settling. “Kal,” he says, gruff.

Superman sighs in relief. “Yes. I’m here. You can stop throwing punches at our friends now.”

Friends? Bruce doesn’t have many of those. Not as Batman. He blinks again. His vision still isn’t right, but he thinks they are alone now. He almost wonders if he imagined the room full of strangers. His smarting knuckles tell him otherwise.

“How are you feeling?” Clark asks.

Bruce aims a glare in Clark’s direction that must read a lot like “ _l_ _ike shit”_ because Clark chuckles and says, “Yeah, standard question. I know. Better question, then, before we subject you to all the tests and clear you: what do you need?”

 _Information,_ Bruce almost says aloud. _Because I don’t understand. What kind of tests? What happened to require them_ ? _And_ why _?_

He catches himself. Batman is not accustomed to feeling at a disadvantage. He will not suffer the indignity of it now. Not even with Clark. He is vulnerable enough with his poor balance and vision. He _will_ figure it out.

“We’re not in Gotham,” he says instead. He knows this much, and Clark’s response will inform Bruce’s next indirect question.

Clark snorts again. “Brilliant detective work. Did the fact you can see Earth from your window give it away?”

It didn’t, actually. Bruce looks, but the pressure behind his eyes builds. They cannot automatically accommodate between distances like they usually do. He withholds a hiss of discomfort and instead refocuses on Clark. His friend’s face still swims before him, but when Bruce really concentrates, he starts to distinguish features. He can trace the vague shape of Clark’s smile. 

Satisfied in the knowledge the apparent damage to his eyes is not permanent, Bruce decides he can focus on the more pressing concern: _what_ is Clark talking about? And _why_ is it funny? The amusement in his tone makes about as much sense as the words themselves. 

Sudden suspicion sinks its roots deep enough to brush against the foundation of his friendship with Superman. It’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t trust easily or often, and when someone has that trust, it is well-earned. Unshakeable. Even as new as it is. 

Despite what others may think about him, he does not like having to question the motives of those around him, and most especially those he’s allowed this far into his life. 

“You aren’t usually this snarky,” Bruce states. He tries to match his humor with that of Clark’s. “I’m not sure I like it.”

Bruce sees the smile grow across Clark’s face. It is not the response Bruce expected. “I thought we decided that we could have an unlimited number of free shots when one of us does something ‘immeasurably stupid,’” Clark says. Bruce imagines the air quotes, hears the deepened tone. He doesn't think he sounds like that. “Like, say, when you push me out of the way of a geyser spitting magical energy...and then allow _yourself_ _to get hit_.”

“You’re vulnerable to magic, Superman,” Bruce chastises automatically, only half of Clark’s words registering. The other half catches up with him before Clark can respond, and he stiffens, a deep sense of _wrongness_ filling him again. 

It’s more than the minute fluctuations in Clark’s temperament, the greater familiarity and confidence with which he speaks to him. It’s in the way their banter doesn’t flow quite right, how he feels as though their entire conversation is off-key. It’s in the earlier presence of a group of people Bruce did not recognize that Clark called _friends._

It’s more than that, even. It’s the way his armor hugs his limbs, how his skin feels ever more like an ill-fitting shell on a hermit crab every time he moves. It’s in this room. In the air. In the fact that Bruce should be able to see the _planet Earth_ from his window. In the answers that aren’t answers to questions Bruce hasn’t asked.

Pride and mysterious persona be damned, he mutters, “I don’t remember this.”

The smile fades, and Clark cocks his head. “Our agreement? Or...the mission?”

“ _Which_ mission?” Bruce snaps, mostly to be difficult. Caving further, he demands, “What is going _on,_ Clark?”

Blue eyes narrow and scan him. 

“Don’t do that.” No matter how injured he is, so long as Bruce is conscious he will always choose not to consent to Superman’s X-ray vision. 

Whether Clark ignores or respects his decision, Bruce still cannot decide. He _trusts_ he does not need to remind his friend as often as he does—both Clark and Kal-El are men of their word, after all—but Bruce also knows Clark’s well-earned control doesn’t always overrule his instincts. It doesn’t help that Superman can have as intense of a glare as Alfred Pennyworth when he puts his mind to it, or that Bruce hasn’t quite nailed the ability to tell the difference between a normal glare and a superpowered one just yet.

“What _do_ you remember?” Clark asks. Concern has replaced all humor in his voice. 

Bruce opens his mouth but hesitates when the answer doesn’t immediately come to him.

Huh. Bruce doesn’t know. Not truly. He remembers...breakfast? A meeting at Wayne Enterprises? A light dinner before patrol? That, however, sounds like a typical weekday for him, nowhere near notable enough to use as proof something isn’t dreadfully wrong with him. 

Because there _must_ be. He does not remember anything leading up to this moment. He does not remember teaming up with Superman recently, nor does he remember being anywhere but Gotham proper.

He rubs his forehead and heaves a sigh. Lingering pins and needles of burning pain shudder through his chest.

“You think, whatever this geyser was—it contained...elements capable of memory alteration?” Bruce asks in lieu of a response. His voice implies heavy skepticism, but he needs at least a single thread of this to begin making sense, for his own sanity’s sake.

God, does he hate magic. 

“Well, we haven't seen anything quite like it before. Zatanna and I both agree you weren’t physically impacted by the geyser's power. She also said whatever it did, it didn’t alter your core. You are wholly _you_ , and the rate of magical residue degradation is consistent enough for us to assume that the effects won't linger, though she and J’onn couldn’t say for sure if—”

“Zatanna?” Bruce interrupts, now _thoroughly_ confused. “Giovanni’s daughter?”

Clark pauses and nods slowly. “Yes. Zatanna Zatara.”

Part of Bruce wants to follow this line of questioning to a resolution. Because Giovanni’s daughter is only a few years older than Dick, and last he heard, her magic was still developing. Giovanni was training her to—

Bruce freezes in place, his stomach dropping out from underneath him. _Oh no._

“Where’s Robin?” he demands.

“Robin?” Clark parrots. “What about him?”

It is coming back to Bruce. Incrementally. He was on patrol. There were reports of Maroni activity in Chinatown, an area historically off-limits to both the Maroni and Falcone crime families. 

Robin wouldn’t stay behind on this one. At the mere mention of the Maronis, he had already been in uniform, bouncing at Bruce's side and asking _what’s taking so long, B-man?_

Nevermind the other details. The point is that Robin was _with_ him, and now he is _not_. 

Clark says something to him, but Bruce ignores him. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He tests his footing and rises without wavering.

“Bruce, what in the world—?”

“He was with me,” Bruce says, taking a step forward. His knees nearly buckle. Pure stubbornness keeps him upright and fuels his next step. “I remember that much.”

“...um, Bruce, this doesn’t make any sense. Maybe you should—” 

Bruce continues to stalk forward. The door is fuzzy but at least he can distinguish it from the rest of the wall. “No, Clark, you don’t _understand_. Dick was with me. He was—”

“Bruce. _Bruce._ Hang on.” Superman grabs his bicep and spins him around. “What do you mean _Dick_ was with you? You just asked where Robin was.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” Bruce snaps impatiently, pulling his arm away. “ _Where is he_? What happened to him?”

When Clark doesn’t immediately respond, Bruce’s chest feels as though it had been caved in by a single punch from Killer Croc. 

And he spirals. 

There’s only one explanation for Clark’s hesitation, for his stricken expression. 

Dick’s gone. 

Bruce failed somehow. He must have lost Dick. He— _God._

_God._

They were all right to question Bruce’s decision-making, weren’t they? What sane person brought a child out into Gotham’s streets anyway? What parental figure ever thought it would be a good idea to let his charge get too close to so much corruption and evil? What kind of person would willingly put a child into danger night after night?

He excused the doubts away time and time again. He was giving Dick an outlet. He was keeping him safe. The boy would have gone out alone again. Wasn’t it better that Bruce was out there with him? Wasn’t it better that he trained the boy rather than let sneak out and run wild? 

He was _helping,_ wasn’t he?

Ha! No, clearly not. He’s done _shit-all_ to help Dick. He’s ruined him. The boy’s barely _lived,_ and now Bruce’s pride and utter _incompetence_ has gone and snuffed out the brightest light he’d ever had the pleasure of welcoming into his life. 

The boy is only ten.

 _(Was_ only ten?)

Bruce stumbles back to sit back on the bed. He leans forward and presses the palm of his hands into his eyes. This was inevitable. They all said it. They all told him. Alfred had his reservations. Clark, too. Hell, even Wonder Woman _,_ who’d been raised as a warrior since birth...

There are consequences when you choose this life. Always. People get hurt. You can’t save everyone.

Except _him_. Bruce was supposed to protect him. He promised.

_He promised._

Gripping his shoulders, Clark shakes him and snaps, “Bruce! Listen to me _._ ” Bruce tries to maneuver out of Clark’s hold, but his friend holds him steady. _“_ Hey, no. I mean it. Look at me.”

With some effort, Bruce raises his head and is stunned into silence. He blinks. And blinks again. 

_This is not his Clark._

“Let go of me.”

The imposter releases him slowly. He looks remarkably hurt by Bruce’s snarling tone. “Bruce? What is it?”

Bruce’s mind races, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. He puts some more distance between him and not-Superman. His fingers catch on a lead-lined pouch at his belt, where he keeps a shard of Kryptonite. 

Or, rather, where he was _supposed_ to keep the Kryptonite. It is no longer there.

“You keep it on the left-hand side,” Clark murmurs. “In a hidden pouch sewn into the seam. Lead-lined, infused with the magic the Amazons use to keep their blades well-honed and unbreakable.” When Bruce freezes in place and slowly twists to his other side, he finds that Clark is correct. He doesn’t remove the weapon. No ordinary person knows how he organizes his belt, let alone understands him well enough to know exactly what it is he is looking for at any given moment. Perhaps this...perhaps this _is_ Clark. His fingers drop from the belt, numb.

“You’re scaring the hell out of me right now,” Clark admits. “Do I need to call Zatanna back in?”

Bruce doesn’t understand. Nothing makes _sense._ “You’re _old_ ,” he accuses.

Clark makes a strangled sound and gives him a wild-eyed look. “Thanks? So are you?” 

“You’ve _aged_ ,” Bruce reiterates. Now that he can actually see _,_ something odd catches his attention, and he raises his hands again, turning them over and noting every unfamiliar callus and scar. They are not his hands. He touches his face and does not like what he finds. 

_A stranger._

He surges back to his feet, marching toward the door. Clark intercepts him again, hands aloft. 

“Get out of the way, Superman.”

“Bruce, calm down. I think it’s safe to say we were hasty to assume that—”

Bruce does not calm down. Nor does he listen. Spinning on his heel, he finds himself staring out the window, where…

He gapes, struck dumb by the incredible sight of Earth from above. They’re in orbit over Europe, and it is nighttime, the continent’s major cities glowing with bursts and strands of light. Twists of dark cloud cover ripple across the black Mediterranean Sea. Africa and Asia dip out of sight, following the natural curvature of the planet.

“This can’t be real,” he whispers. 

“It _is_ real,” Clark says from his side. “...Can you tell me what year it is right now, Bruce?”

Dazed, Bruce dutifully tells him, and Clark starts chortling.

At that, Bruce tears his gaze away and shoots him a glare. “It isn’t funny.”

“Oh, yes, it is. Everything makes sense now.” 

_“Does it_?” Bruce demands. 

“Yes, it definitely does. Rao, I’d forgotten how much of a brat you were.”

Bruce bristles. “Forgive me for my lack of manners. We’ll just ignore the fact that magic is at play here. Or that we’re currently in space. Or that you’re not how I remember you and _Robin is—_ ”

Unphased by his sarcasm, Clark hums and pats his shoulder. “Fine. Robin is fine, I promise. And so is Dick.”

Bruce’s brain short-circuits trying to understand why, for the second time, Clark implies there is a distinction between the two, and as if realizing his slip, Clark purses his lips. “Doggonit,” he curses under his breath, rubbing his face. “You think you’re, what, twenty-five? Twenty-six? I forgot your contingencies.”

Contingencies? Something of this nature happened often enough to require _contingencies_? 

“I _am_ twenty-six,” Bruce says.

Clark shakes his head. “We’re currently fifteen years into your future, Bruce. You’re forty-one years old. In the last fifteen years, you, Diana, and I formed a team of heroes. Two of our Green Lanterns and Zatanna requested backup on a planet known for its volatile and supernatural environment. You were knocked unconscious by an unknown magical force while there. We brought you back here because this place is our base of operations when we go on off-world missions.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

He became Batman to eradicate crime in _his_ city. Finding a few others like him in other cities, learning of the existence of Kryptonians and metahumans, and gaining Superman’s friendship were merely interesting developments, not meant to be a segue into...

_This._

Gotham was enough of a responsibility. He already had a To-Do List a mile long. Resolving intergalactic conflict with Superman, founding a new team _,_ and collaborating with sorcerers and Green Lanterns and _whoever else_ on the regular were _not_ on it. 

He knows his limits. What Clark’s suggesting is well beyond those limits.

(But adopting a child from the circus was never on his To Do List either, was it?)

“Of course you don’t. That’s why you made contingencies.” Clark reaches over and plucks an abandoned comm from the little bedside table next to Bruce’s cot. “You have two choices. Alfred or Dick?”

“Dick,” Bruce responds immediately. 

Clark looks surprised. Bruce bears his incredulity without flinching. While it is true he trusts no one more than Alfred, he needs...he doesn’t know _what_ he needs exactly, but ensuring Dick is alright is a large fraction of it. 

This veneer of composure he managed to collect? It’s superficial at most, diverting at best. It hasn’t done much to close the chasm of dread and confusion in his chest.

Besides, the thought of Alfred seeing him like this is highly unattractive. Assuming this isn’t all just one vivid hallucination and Bruce behaved recklessly enough that the consequence was magical amnesia, he can already imagine the number of cutting lectures and disapproving frowns his guardian would have prepared for him.

He isn’t suicidal. He’d much rather avoid that for the time being.

In addition, if it really is fifteen years in the future, Dick will be his age now. And Bruce…Bruce _can’t_ imagine that.

He wants—needs—to see for himself.

“Alright,” Clark acquiesces. “I’ll call Dick.”

* * *

No one disturbs him while he waits.

He does not wait patiently. 

If there was any lingering suspicion that Clark was lying to him, or that this was all an elaborate hoax, Bruce has long since dismissed it. His belt lies in dissected shambles on the bedside table and across the cot. Pieces of his armor, removed after quite a bit of cursing and trial-and-error, rest amongst his stunningly advanced weapons and gadgets. An investigation of the room itself also provided proof of technological advancements well beyond that which Bruce’s imagination alone could conjure. 

He picks up a batarang and juggles it idly between his fingers before launching it at the metal wall. It sings as it flies, joining the others jutting from the wall with a satisfying _schnick._ After a programmed delay, it crackles with electricity and fizzes out. It packs a punch, he’s come to learn, and the taser-like function is hardly the only exciting update he’s discovered since locating the fine ridge of buttons along each of the blades. 

Sharp and durable enough to slice through metal, ingenuitive enough to use in a unique variety of situations, these weapons are absolute wonders. He can only guess how long it took his older self and Lucius to design and balance these beauties. What he cannot fathom is just how much longer he took to train with them. It was likely a long while. His older body is as well honed as the batarangs themselves, its muscle memory, grace, and power far more impressive than that of his own.

It is remarkable. Truly. Intellectually, he can acknowledge this.

Why, then, does it not feel _real_?

These obvious accomplishments? All the inferences he made after reevaluating his discussion with Clark? The newfound idea that the Batman mantle has the potential to ascend beyond—and _has_ in the last fifteen years surpassed—all of his expectations?

This person Clark sees, the one who wears this advanced armor like a second skin and moves like shadow incarnate—it is not him. This is a person he...he always maybe hoped he could be, but it is also one he doesn’t know _how_ to be. 

He is painfully aware Dick will see someone else, too. 

Anxiety flutters in his gut. Gritting his teeth, he ignores the clock, keeps the door _out_ of his peripheral vision, and chooses another batarang. 

Fifteen minutes ago, he called Clark in and implied he changed his mind. Dick didn’t need to come. He would submit himself to strangers for further magical evaluation to see whether the effects could be circumvented sooner rather than later.

His haughty tone and indirect phrasing did not phase Clark. The man gave him a piercing, unimpressed look that peeled him to his core. X-ray vision would never feel half as discomitting as that look did. He had to turn away from Clark, the heat of humiliation rising up his neck and ears.

Clark’s gracious, compassionate response only made things worse. He patiently reiterated what he said before: Zatanna already said the effects would fade on their own, and that any outside influence on her part might damage him further. 

“And you know there’s no turning Dick back now, Bruce,” Clark said as he turned back to the threshold. “He’s _your_ kid, after all.”

At the time, the comment rolled off of him like a traffic cone off the Batmobile. In privacy, however, Bruce still cannot determine if the comment was meant to be a compliment or an insult. 

Just who has he become? And who, in turn, has _Dick_ grown to be?

In retrospect, choosing to engage in target practice to keep himself occupied instead of lingering over those very questions was hardly the appropriate thing to do. It's childish. Petty. Retaliation of this kind is not befitting of a hero.

(Assuming, of course, that _is_ what he’s supposed to be). 

Bruce spins and hurls his batarang just as the door eases open. The young man entering the medical bay hardly flinches as the weapon zips past. Bruce falls out of his followthrough stance with sudden awkwardness. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, how to place his feet. 

It turns out it doesn’t matter. Dick greets him with a quirked brow and amused blue eyes. He is fighting a smile, all mischief and light and...

“Oh,” Bruce breathes. Unbidden, a lump forms in his throat. Dick looks...Dick looks _well._ Healthy. Strong. 

_Happy._

He...he still _smiles_.

(How? Surely that can’t have been Bruce’s influence?)

Dick holds himself with poise, confidence. The uniform he wears—black, with a striking line of blue slashing across his chest—highlights his broad shoulders and trim waist. He has an unhindered, loping walk, a dance in every step, clearly still the acrobat his parents bred him to be. The escrima sticks strapped to his back do nothing to hinder his movement. His friendly, lighthearted aura still catches Bruce off-guard, just as it had when they first met, all those months ago. 

When Dick’s face suddenly crumples, nose wrinkling, Bruce feels as though all the warmth has been sucked from the room. For half a heartbeat, Bruce is convinced something is wrong—that _he_ did something wrong—but then...

“What?” Dick pouts in a soft tenor. “Is there something on my face?”

Bruce doesn’t respond, staring. Dick’s _joking_. Of course he’s joking. That’s who he is. 

_He can still joke._

Dick, true to character, does not hold the façade for long. With a roll of his eyes and a light chuckle, he steps further into the room, closing the door behind him and surveying the batarangs sticking out of the wall again. “Nice,” he comments, tugging one out of the metal and spinning it expertly between his fingers. Keen eyes scan the mess he made of his belt and armor. 

Dick’s judgment does not bother Bruce half as much as he feared. He’s far too captivated by the fact he is _here_. And he is _grown._

“You’ve gotta stop staring, B,” Dick says lazily. “You’re going to give me a complex.”

Bruce starts. “I…” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” He doesn’t have the words, but he does need to say one thing. “When I last saw you, you were ten.” 

“Hm, yes, Clark mentioned.” Dick eyes him, not embarrassed or self-conscious in the least. _Still a performer at heart, then,_ Bruce acknowledges. Glad to see one of them can take this all in stride. “How’re you feeling?”

Bruce hates the question even more than when Clark asked it. He doesn’t care about how _he’s_ feeling. “You are the spitting image of your parents,” he murmurs. “Anyone who knew them would recognize you were theirs on sight.”

Dick stares at him this time, and Bruce gets the impression that he doesn’t hear that often. A gross oversight. The Flying Graysons would be so, _so_ proud.

He has no right to share in that pride, of course, but still, he...feels it. Like a whole field full of lightning bugs took residence in his chest.

“Thanks, B.” 

There’s something in his voice Bruce doesn’t recognize. Not from him, at least. It is far too sensitive and tender. It steals his own voice away because he does not know what it means. 

Luckily, Dick never did well with silence, so Bruce doesn’t have to break it himself. “Alright, big man,” he says with a clap of his hands. “What’s going through your head right now?”

The blunt question receives an equally blunt answer. “I didn’t expect this,” Bruce says honestly. “I didn’t expect _you_.”

Dick grins like an imp and actually _flips his hair._ “Didn’t expect me to be so dashing?” 

“I didn’t expect you to be _alive_.”

Dick responds as though he’d been physically slapped. He closes his eyes against the perceived sting, and Bruce can _see_ him grapple for self-withstraint. Bruce curses himself for his lack of tact, reaching out. Dick senses his approach and steps back. _Away_.

“Glad to see you trusted me to look after myself,” the young man says, a little bitterly. A dark chuckle bursts from his lips. It breaks Bruce’s heart. “God, what else did I expect?” he mutters to himself. He throws the batarang he was playing with, where it finds a snug place right amongst the others. His form is impeccable. “I’d forgotten what you were like.”

He turns, as if to leave, and Bruce intercepts immediately. “No,” he growls. Dick shrugs off the hand Bruce placed on his shoulder. When he stubbornly tries again, Dick does not dislodge the hand. He takes it as a good sign. “Listen to me. That was never it, Dick.”

“Then _what,_ Bruce?” Dick’s eyes flash, and the hurt he’s feeling reverberates in Bruce’s chest. _Bruce_ did that. He mistepped, somehow. He didn’t mean to, but of course he did. That’s what he always does. “What did you mean? How else am I supposed to take something like that from you?”

Bruce hesitates, swallowing his own tongue. This Dick...this isn’t _his_ Dick. Not really. This is a Dick who grew up, who probably won’t find comfort in a stuffed elephant named Zitka; who probably won’t be consoled with a mug of hot chocolate and the promise of a Disney movie marathon in the den. He doesn’t know what to say to make it better.

His hand falls.

“Clark told me you think you’re twenty-six right now,” Dick continues. “You’ve only ever known me as Robin, barely a year into the short-shorts. And, yeah, I know what they all thought back then.” He raises the pitch of his voice, mocking and damning. “‘Look at little Robin, always right at Batman’s heel. What a nuisance! Why does Batman even bother? What a little shit, always getting underfoot; always looking for ways to get himself kill—’”

 _God,_ what had happened? What had his older self done to make Dick feel this way? 

“I never trusted _myself_!” Bruce insists, unable to hear another word. “Don’t you _understand_?”

Dick cuts himself off, blue eyes wide and uncomprehending. “What?” he asks, stunned. 

“Can you, for a moment, imagine what this is like for me? Right now?” Bruce suggests in a much weaker voice. 

He is far past the point of salvaging his pride, and in light of what he found after partnering with Dick as Robin? After letting Dick wiggle his way into his heart? His pride isn’t worth _shit_.

Dick matters far more than all of it. He always had.

Bruce heaves a sigh and drags a hand through his hair. His older self keeps it shorter than he usually prefers it. “I don’t know what has happened between us,” he says. “Or how much of a true impact I made in your life over the last fifteen years. Clearly, this is a different flavor of an argument we’ve had before. In the end, I don’t remember it, and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t matter.”

Dick has every right to look indignant at Bruce’s dismissal, but he can’t allow Dick to get the wrong idea. He continues, taking deliberate care with his words. “Because right now, with you in front of me, I am confronted with proof that I didn’t screw up entirely. I didn’t _ruin_ you. I didn’t completely _lose you_. Don’t you see? You grew up. You chose new colors, a new identity, too, I’d wager. And you’re still _you_. Gotham didn’t take any of that away from you. I…” He realizes he’s raised his voice again, and he winces, lowering his tone. His voice breaks with the strain of it. “ _I_ didn’t take any of that away from you.”

Metaphorical crickets cheep in the empty, gaping silence that follows. Bruce can’t look Dick in the eye and instead picks up yet another batarang to fiddle with.

“You always seemed so confident,” Dick ventures softly. Bruce dares to peek at him. It looks as though he’s just had a rug pulled out from under him and he’s milliseconds away from crashing to the floor. “That’s how I remember it, anyway. I...Everything was always so much better when I knew you had faith in me. In _us._ Batman and Robin. The Dynamic Duo. That’s why it hurts so much whenever…”

Bruce barks a laugh and shakes his head. With a half-hearted flick of the wrist, he lets the batarang soar toward his makeshift target on the wall and sinks into a seat on the edge of his cot without caring where it landed. “Dick, I was a twenty-five year old who suddenly acquired a nine-year-old child with boundless energy, a drive to do what was just and right, and a light so bright I had to squint whenever I remotely near your orbit.” He pins Dick with a stare. “Even with Alfred’s help, I had no _idea_ what I was doing with you.”

Dick sits beside him and, after a brief hesitation, bumps shoulders with him. His smile offers a truce that Bruce readily accepts. 

“Well, you did alright, I think,” Dick says. When Bruce gives him a long-suffering look, Dick is quick to reassure, “I’m not just saying that, either! You weren’t perfect—who _is?_ —but you made time for me. And for the others.”

“Making time” for the people in his life is a pretty low bar. He cannot say how well he _spent_ that time. However...Bruce quickly reassesses. He remembers the early days, after Dick learned about the Cave and there were no further secrets between them. Dick began truly blossoming under his and Alfred's care once Bruce didn't have to hide the most important aspect of his life from him. 

Besides, Dick was not in the habit of offering pitying platitudes as a child. He likely said this because he meant it. And not only that: the time probably meant something special too. To him and the…

“Others?” Bruce chokes. “Other _Robins_? Is _that_ what Clark meant?”

Dick winces. “Ah, whoops. You’re not supposed to know too much about them.” Bruce opens his mouth to demand _why,_ but Dick beats him to it, his tone stern and uncompromising. “That’s one of _your_ amnesia protocols, Bruce. ‘Unless in a dire emergency or if the amnesia appears permanent.’” 

Dick, curiously, quotes his older self much in the same way Clark does. The two of them must be close.

“You never said as much,” Dick continues, “but we understand it’s because you don’t want to...upset anyone you hadn’t met already, or step into something you weren’t meant to.”

Bruce’s temper idles and dies as Dick explains. In its place, he feels as though a clamp has taken hold of his heart. Every word screws it tighter. He ignores the sensation and forces himself to be grateful for his older self’s foresight. He is self-aware enough to realize he’d likely ruin fragile relationships or break unsaid promises he could not remember making. He wouldn’t understand what people would expect from him, much less what they would _need_ from him.

He’d hurt them, and though he does not know them, he does not want that. Hell, he’s already hurt Dick enough.

“Can I ask how many?” he attempts cautiously.

Dick’s eyes dance. Bruce immediately braces himself. “Depends,” the young man teases. “Are you counting official adoptions or everyone who has their own bedroom in Wayne Manor? Because there’s a difference.”

“...there’s that many?” Bruce whispers, incredulous. He feels dizzy all of a sudden. Holy Mother of—he’s not getting enough _air_.

A whole Manor full of people. Of _kids._ What that must be _like_.

A strong hand grips his shoulder. Bruce comes back to himself abruptly as Dick tips his head back and laughs uproariously. “Aaaand we’ll leave it at that,” he says, wiping his eyes. “Your brain might break. How about a compromise?”

“Fine,” Bruce relents after a moment of consideration, both immeasurably grateful and disappointed. “What else is off limits?”

“Active cases. Current rogue or gang activity. New developments on any cold cases you remember.”

“So I cannot act as Batman,” Bruce deduces unhappily.

“Essentially, yes. Though we all know how well that tends to work out in pretty much every other circumstance, sooo…”

Bruce sighs and, shoving aside some of his gear to make space, he leans back onto his elbows. “This sounds tedious,” he complains gruffly. “What if this magic lasts longer than a few hours? What if it lasts days? Weeks? Gotham can’t—”

“Gotham _can_ ,” Dick corrects firmly. When Bruce raises again, ready to argue, he stops upon seeing the fire in Dick’s eyes, the clench in his jaw. He bleeds confidence. “Trust us, B,” he adds earnestly. “This is what you trained us for.”

Bruce isn’t placated, but only because something about Dick’s words doesn’t sit right with him. Feeling remarkably self-conscious, he mumbles, “I would hope I did more than _train_ you.”

Dick smiles again, and it brings immediate consolation. “How about this?” he asks considerately. “I looked at the data they took off you after the incident, after they brought you back here, and another two hours after that. Three data points. Enough to suggest that the magical residue is degrading at a steady enough rate we all think you’re only stuck like this for another twelve to sixteen hours. Max. Your next reading will tell us more.”

“Oh,” Bruce says dumbly, relaxing. If he’d known the actual timeline earlier… “That’s not so bad.”

“No, it’s not,” Dick agrees. He kicks off the ground, and after sweeping more gear away, he swings his legs up onto the cot and into a cross-legged position. “And since I have nothing better to do, I’ll sacrifice myself for the mental wellbeing of the others and keep you company. Hal is _still_ icing his jaw, you know.”

Bruce doesn't know this Hal, but when he brushes a thumb over his bruised knuckles, he feels grim satisfaction. "He deserved it."

Dick laughs and shakes his head. "You're a menace," he compliments delightedly. After propping his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his hands, Dick leans forward and says, “Hit me, B-man. I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”

Bruce stares, stunned by the incredible opportunity. Humbled, too, by Dick’s level of comfort and trust in him, even after the little spat they had. Dick has always had a good heart, open and welcoming to nearly everyone who had the pleasure of knowing it, but is forgiveness really _that_ easy for him? 

Curiosity rages like a bonfire. “Your other grievances,” Bruce requests. With a hint of a smile on his lips, he nudges Dick’s thigh with his foot. “I won’t remember, so I can take it. You had _some_ things to get off your chest, it appears.”

“Sure,” Dick says with a shrug. He bats Bruce’s foot away. “But doesn’t every kid have at least a little bit of beef with their parents?” 

Bruce stills, his heart suddenly trapped in his throat. “I thought you never wanted another father,” he says, very slowly. “I promised you I wouldn’t replace John.”

Dick considers and says casually, “Well...I didn’t just grow out of the Robin uniform, did I? I suppose I grew out of _that_ , too.”

Speechless, Bruce stares at the grown man his young ward has become. A swell of pride and joy balloons to heights he never allowed himself to reach before. He feels light enough to fly, and a crooked smile, unbound by self-made reservations, begins to grow across his cheeks.

Before now, he hadn’t ever acknowledged that he claimed Dick as his own well before he fully understood what it meant to love a child. 

_Perhaps,_ Bruce allows himself to think, _perhaps I did do okay if it means I have this._

When Dick launches into a detailed explanation about how the first of his grievances lies in how—in a very severe breach of a very serious contract between the members of his family—Bruce recently took the last package of Hostess Ho-Hos from their secret stash without going through the trouble of sneaking in more contraband to replace it, Bruce knows their conversations are unlikely to have much true depth, but that’s okay. 

No amount of magical amnesia could ever make him want to trade this time with his son. No, not for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistakes are my own. As always, I don't mind you pointing out glaring errors in the comments. :)


End file.
